


Busted

by hannahrhen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Beefcake, Bondage, Caught, Consensual Kink, Edgeplay, Embarrassment, First Time, M/M, No Spoilers, Sexual Content, Short, Spanking, Swearing, Sweet, Teasing, Topping from the Bottom, Voyeur Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-14 12:14:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3410222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannahrhen/pseuds/hannahrhen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short fics and prompt fills, cheerful and low-angst, starting with:</p><p> </p><p>  <em>Sam was back earlier than expected.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Busted

**Author's Note:**

> If/when I do other Supernatural prompts, they'll be added to this story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by [melonbutterfly](http://archiveofourown.org/users/melonbutterfly/pseuds/melonbutterfly), because all it takes it prodding me with a spanking fic suggestion, apparently.

Sam was back earlier than expected.

He wasn’t exactly making eye contact with Dean—just kind of staring, bug-eyed, in their general direction.

“What are you—” And Dean heard the paper of the grocery bag propped under his arm crumple. (Who still used paper grocery bags?) “What are you  _doing_?”

Dean knew how it looked. Cas was over Dean’s lap, on the sofa, shirt tails ruched up and pants down, ass exposed and a, well, pretty nice shade of pink, if Dean could call it.

The palm of Dean’s hand was a similar color.

Dean  _really_ wasn’t expecting Sam back yet, and, while he tried to think of an answer, Cas piped up, “He’s punishing me,” like that was gonna explain things.

The bag crumpled more. Dean thought he heard some eggs crack.

Now Sam was looking straight at him. “ _Why_ , Dean?” and Dean could read that face, and any words that could explain why he might actually be hurting his best friend, their closest ally, and a frickin' angel weren’t turning up at the moment.

“I’ve been bad. I’ve been _really_  bad, Sam,” and, again, probably not helping,  _Cas_.

“Dean!” After the eggs, the next thing to go was gonna be whatever glass bottles were jammed together under the bread and lettuce. Dean realized his hand was still midway in the air, hovering over Cas’ ass, and, for lack of a better place, he settled it palm down across Cas’ butt cheeks, where it seemed to fit comfortably.

“He’s been … uhh … naughty?” Dean offered, and winced when Cas snorted and his toes honest-to-God curled into the sofa cushions. “Yeah, just … just  _really_  naughty.”

And Sam sagged. “This is a sex thing.” Dean waited until Sam put his free hand over his eyes to lift and bring his hand down just a little over Cas’ ass, a tiny smack that barely sounded in the room, because,  _man_ , was he  _asking_ for it. Cas squirmed across Dean’s thighs and sighed while Dean tamped down a grin. But then Sam was glaring at them and said, “You couldn’t … I was gone for … I went to the  _grocery store_ , and you had to do your kinky shit on the couch. Like, right here.”

And Cas twisted around to look back at Sam. “I was being a bad boy, Sam. You shouldn’t expect Dean to wait to—what did you call it, Dean—‘give me a good seeing to?’” and, holy shit, this was going to cost them for, like, days into the future. Sam’s sulking. The passive-aggressive comments. The  _flouncing._  

Days!

_(Totally worth it.)_

“Listen,” Sam said. “I’m gonna … I’m gonna go to my room now, and I’m going to leave all the groceries … here, on the floor”—he set the bag down lightly enough that maybe the glass was salvageable—”and the rest of them out in the car. What happens to them is up to you. Because  _holy shit_ , you guys.”

And he was gone, trailing an echo of “just  _holy shit_ " and "I was at the _grocery store_ " behind him.

Well, Dean thought—that was awkward. Cas had twisted back around and was looking up at him now, smiling like the smug little bastard he was. “I think I was even worse then, Dean—what do you think?”

“Yep,” Dean assured him, “Just fuckin’ terrible,” and went back to work on that pretty pink ass.

Hell. The groceries would be there when he was done.


	2. Calling It Topping Is Bullshit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Since when had Dean ever been in control?

**Calling it “topping” is bullshit.  
**

Dean thought he had a handle on this the first time—the  _very first time_ —they ended up in a bedroom together, alone.  _That_  kind of alone. And Cas had had the dumbest, most Cas-like smile on his face from the minute Dean started touching him, when they both suddenly knew how it was gonna go.

The smile, it … it was embarrassing, and it made Dean want to look away and look closer, and he couldn’t help but smile back every time he saw it. It was Cas’ patented smile of wonder, and Dean had seen it before, but never really believed it was about him.

Right now it was all about him.

And Dean, he had ways of doing things. Call it a lifetime of learning, but he kind of knew how to move these kinds of activities from the doorway across the floor to the bed. Knew how to get a girl—get  _someone_  flat on their back, knew how to turn his hips just right so their legs just fell open, smooth and welcoming.

Dean was a creature of habit, of muscle memory, and as he guided Cas backwards toward the bed, got him—yeah—on his back, and twisted himself in between Cas’ thighs as he settled on top … well. It was instinct, right?

Except Cas—Cas didn’t follow the plan. Didn’t push back, no, and that smile (of fucking wonder) was turned up all the way as he kept his hands flat on Dean’s chest, kept pulling back from kisses just to peer up at Dean and huff a little laugh here and there, of wonder, of delight, of plain fuckin’ happiness …

Shit.

Dean was used to getting mauled back when it got this intense, but he couldn’t say he missed it at the moment. And Cas’ cooperated enthusiastically when their clothes came off, and only frowned a little in puzzlement when the lube came out, and gave immediately when Dean pushed his legs up so he could fit himself straight in.

Only touched Dean’s face and played with his hair and traced his—his goddamned collarbone, for fuck’s sake, and if it had been anyone else, Dean would have thought they were bored, but Cas was hard beneath his stomach and his breath came faster as Dean made lo—nailed him, and the smiling happy fucker wouldn’t give an inch.

“Cas,” he panted. “You need to—hang on, let me—” And he moved off one arm to try to get his hand around Cas’ dick (which was fuckin’ difficult to coordinate, by the way), but Cas just grabbed his wrist firmly and moved it right back down where it, along with the other, framed Cas’ face, and wrapped his fingers around Dean’s forearm because that apparently was the next unsexy body part needing attention.

Dean was close—really fuckin’ close, and he needed Cas to— “You gotta—come  _on_ , man,” but all Cas said was, “I want to see you, Dean,” with that same expression, that same voice, his fingers tightening around Dean’s arm and stroking behind his ear. Cas was bright as the sun and nothing but love now that Dean could actually see it, recognize what it was, nothing but the stupid amount of  _actual fucking love_  he had for Dean, the dumbass. 

And it wasn’t like Dean could refuse  _that_ , so he didn’t.

After, though, Dean felt a little … strange. Like he’d messed up. He’d never been with someone so passive in bed, not since some bad early times when he hadn’t known what a girl actually needed and getting there himself was his only goal. So he was on his side, watching Cas stretch lazily next to him—his cock still magnificently hard, so there was that, at least—and Dean feeling like the biggest tool in the goddamned world.

Maybe literally.

And Cas just turned that smile back on him, a trifle smug now (for a guy who just took a dick up his ass), and, after he was done with that obscene stretch, touched Dean’s face again, took his shaking hand and said, “Make me come now, Dean.”

And Dean just stared for a second, and then snorted, because … well,  _sure_. Absofuckin- _lutely_. He allowed Cas to draw his hand to his cock, which obviously knew what it wanted ten minutes earlier, and gave Cas’ shoulder a little bite in sweet retribution.

Because— _what_  the  _hell_. He had never been in control with Cas, not once, so … why should he start now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cas as the world's gentlest power bottom is my favorite headcanon.


	3. Brick House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is a brick shithouse. Someone notices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of those ficlets that had a title before anything else, because it just amused me. Here's [The Straight Dope](http://www.straightdope.com/columns/read/2458/how-did-the-phrase-built-like-a-brick-shithouse-get-to-be-a-compliment) on how "built like a brick shithouse" became a compliment, and how in some regions it specifically applies to men.

He didn’t notice it the first time it happened—not really, not until after he had walked through the room stripping off his disgusting shirt to add it to the washing machine. Cas had been in the middle of talking to Sam—in the middle of a sentence—and he had stopped partway into a word when Dean’s shirt was just covering his head, blocking his view.

Dean had gotten himself free and looked back at Cas’ sudden weird silence just as Sam had glanced up from his book, and Cas was … yeah, just looking at him, blank like there wasn’t a single thought bouncing around inside. Startling enough that Dean had to catch himself before he smacked into a doorjamb.

Okay, so, maybe he noticed.

He noticed the next time, too, when he came out from under the car, pre-stripped this time because he’d never done a damned oil change without screwing up a shirt, and he didn’t have anything disposable at the moment. So maybe he’d been a little sweaty in the garage heat, and maybe he hadn’t wiped his hands enough on a rag before scratching greasy fingerprints across his chest, and maybe he’d stretched his arms above his head right to work out the kinks when Cas came to offer him a sandwich.

Dean had had to ask him twice why he was just standing there, before something like “liverwurst” tumbled out of Cas’ mouth and he shuffled around and back through the door.

_Okay, so that’s how it’s gonna be._

Dean couldn’t say … yeah, couldn’t say he didn’t kinda  _like_  it. All these years of Cas seeing him fucked up, naked but usually with bleeding, sick, half-dead, mostly dead, ceased to goddamned be, and suddenly he was flustered by the patented Winchester guns? The stellar Winchester pecs?

_This was gonna be fun._

So if Dean’s shirts got a little tighter, his sleeves a little shorter, it was definitely worth creating some disposable t-shirts by buying them in size Skin-Fuckin’-Tight and then tugging the fabric up over his biceps, just a tease of shoulder where Cas’ mark used to be. Maybe he made a point, or two or three, by passing through the kitchen topless after a workout, pulling one arm or both behind his back in a post-exercise stretch that made every muscle pop. Or, when he was really wanting some fun, stopping at the refrigerator, taking out a carton of something, and drinking it with his head thrown back while the refrigerator light shone on his throat and pecs and belly and Cas watched, huge-eyed and silent, from the corner.

It was fun—hell, yeah. Real fun … until, you know, nobody actually did anything about it. That warm, anticipatory little tug in Dean’s belly would tighten two notches—three—and then wait. And wait. Dean would catch the pink flush over Cas’ face, see him drop his eyes to the floor and murmur some fragmented words, and then follow him with Dean’s own eyes as his voyeur ex-angel withdrew from the room with half an excuse. That … was less fun. Especially after the dozenth time.

And Sammy noticed eventually, too. 

"Christ, dude," he snapped one day from the kitchen table. "Are you allergic to shirts all of a sudden?" It was hot out, and the last hunt had sucked—too late, too many victims before they handled it—and Sam apparently wasn’t going to pull punches while he was cleaning the weapons. "Because, seriously, Dean, put on a fucking shirt. Nobody here wants to see that every goddamned day." The balled-up rag he threw almost nailed Dean in the face. And Dean hadn’t known Cas was in earshot until he heard something solid knock into a table, and then a little hollow, aching sound, and then Cas was moving away.

And Sam turned back from the distraction, put the pieces together way too quickly, and leveled a glare at him. He mouthed, “You’re. An. Asshole.”

Which was … fair. 

So Dean canned it on the titty shots after that. 

But God, as the song went, had a sick sense of humor. And Dean kind of … kind of missed the pink of Cas’ face, the feel of those eyes on his skin, the … the tingling promise of whatever the hell was finally gonna happen. That tug in his belly faded into an echo of disappointment.

Eventually, it was time to change the oil in the car again. To everything, turn, turn, turn, and all that shit. And when Dean got to the garage, halfway out of his shirt, Cas was waiting. He was perched on the edge of a counter, hands folded together. Just, you know, waiting. For some—some reason. 

Dean started to shove his arm back into his shirt.

"You’ll stain your shirt, Dean," Cas said, clear enough that time.

 _And, oh, that was—uh._  “I have other shirts.”

“That’s a waste of money.” And Cas was twisting his hands together in his lap a little, half-glancing at his own fingers and then peeking back up at Dean, and if Cas had a weakness for the Winchester guns, well, Dean was weak in his own way.

And this was so fuckin’ stupid, Dean thought, and pulled the shirt back off, tossed it onto Baby’s hood. And suddenly … suddenly felt really naked. “Cas, I—” His arms were strange at his sides, and he tried folding them over his chest, and he tried letting them down by his sides again, and none of it felt right. And he and Cas were a pair, with Cas’ awkward hands and Dean’s noodle arms. But Cas wasn’t studying his own hands anymore. He was just looking at Dean. 

At Dean’s face.

“I’m sorry if I … if I make you feel—,” he started, and Dean jumped in with, “You don’t. You really don’t.”

“It’s just—”

“I know.”

“You’re so—”

And Dean couldn’t help but be a little smug at that, and he had to let it slide into his tone as he repeated, “I know,” and broke into a chuckle at the end of it, pleased with himself.

Cas was off the counter then, walking toward him. “You’re very frustrating.”

“So I’ve been told,” Dean retorted, smiling big then. “So you’ve told me.”

And when Cas was in his space, just right up on him, he reached a hand out and pressed his palm flat over Dean’s bare chest. Over his heart.

“See something you like?” Dean couldn’t help but prod, and if Cas asked him the same thing, Dean was gonna be so, so fucked.

But all Cas said was, “Everything,” and he moved in baldly, boldly, and _finally_ to be kissed.

 


	4. Edged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why–” Cas’ voice broke with a crack, and he pulled harder at the ropes around his wrists before trying again. “Why would anyone _do this_?” Another tug. “By _choice_?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Explicit.** Oh, my, yes.

**Dean had to give him some credit**. It took a lot longer than expected for Cas to snap.

“Why–” Cas’ voice broke on the word, and he pulled harder at the ropes around his wrists before trying again. “Why would anyone  _do this_?” Another tug. “By _choice_?!”

An hour, by the clock next to the bed. Fifty-seven minutes, but who was really counting.  

Dean didn’t have to hide his smile, since Cas was blindfolded as well as tied, wrist and ankle, to the four corners of the bed. Still, he cleared his throat of any trace of humor before offering--and  _cool as a fucking cucumber_ , thanks, “Thought we already went over this.” He moved his fingers, three now, inside Cas’ body, punctuating the words with a gentle rub of fingertips just next to that little place that made Cas arch and clench tight. 

Sure enough, he got that beautiful flutter of muscle around his knuckles, and Cas actually fucking growled as his throbbing cock kept up the steady drip, drip, drip of fluid that beaded from the head and pooled over his stomach, hot and sloppy. Dean had cleaned it up once with wide swipes of his tongue but was letting it collect now, a perfect and perfectly fucking hot gauge of how long he’d been putting Cas through this porn-fueled torment. One of them, anyway: those lips were even redder from an hour of being bitten, nipples puffy after Dean had spent some time acrobatically suckling while teasing the fat, shining head of Cas’ cock with his thumb. 

Having Cas’ body as his personal playing was the best goddamned thing, especially since he was finally introducing Cas to–-

“Edging, babe.” He scooted down, straddling Cas at the knee again and pressing a kiss to his balls as he nudged his fingers apart, stretching him even wider for the next round of fucking. “Bringing you close over and over--not letting you come? That’s kind of the point. When you  _do_  come?” He nipped the tender bit of skin just where thigh met groin. “When I finally _let_  you come? Man, it’s gonna blow your goddamned head off.” He knew Cas could hear the smile in his voice then, but what was his sweet little angel gonna do about it? Safeword out, sure, but he’d shown too much determination to understand the foibles of human sexuality.

Specifically, Dean’s sexuality. Which was turning out to be strictly defined by how long he could string Cas out like this, bed creaking from the pressure of Cas’ half-hearted struggles, those little noises Cas kept making when Dean-–

He ran his tongue from the tight swell of Cas’ sac up the long line of his cock, and with his free hand he pinched one of those already angry nipples. Was ready for Cas to buck and just held on, knees clamping around him tight and, yeah, he laughed, just a little. Then, for kicks, twisted that abused nipple a tiny bit to make Cas gasp and plunged his fingers deep again into that sweet, sloppy, spasming hole. 

Dean wondered what was gonna run out first--his imagination or the lube. Looking over Cas, over the marks his touch had left all over that skin, over that body taut and desperate for relief, mouth panting for air between the sweet little  _ah-ah-ah’s_ … well, Dean had his money on the lube.

“This is _awful_ ,” Cas said when he finally had words again, in a tone that wasn’t actually … convincing. But Dean stilled his fingers anyway. Cas knew the safeword--had confirmed it before they started--but Dean paused and let go of that perky nipple.

“You, uh, want me to stop?” he asked, spreading his palm over Cas’s heart and rubbing a gentle thumb over his inner thigh. 

“Oh, God, no,” and  _that_  answer was fast, forced out on a groan, as Cas turned his hands up and braced his palms on the headboard again, just at the furthest reach of the ropes. And Dean was already moving again, already climbing back up Cas' body, when he added, emphatic: “Never,  _never_  stop.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Find me on tumblr](http://hannahrhen.tumblr.com)! And thank you for reading!


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